Friday, January 25, 2008

"I got this in the war. Yeah, The Battle of Potato. I got cocky and overzealous. I peeled without regard for anybody’s safety. I ended up peeling my pinky. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget."

"And this one?"

"This one was near the end of the war at The Battle of Tomato. 'Slice! Slice faster,' they yelled. I sliced as fast as I could, but the knives we were issued were duller than butter knives. Do you know how hard it is to slice tomatoes with a dull knife? It’s fucking hard! I sliced and sliced and sliced, tomato after tomato after tomato. I was so tired and scared. I never seen so much red. They tell you in training not to close your eyes, even for a second. I tell ya, those bastards know what they’re talking about. I closed my eyes and when I opened them . . . . It was my knuckle, cut almost down to the bone."

"Baby, you’re so brave!"

"You gotta be."

"And these?"

"This was in The Battle of Carrot. I was shot three times in the chest."

Sunday, January 20, 2008

I was walking towards him about to bust him to smithereens when his buddy exploded a bag of cement into my face. I felt my way out of the grey cloud of dust like a zombie escaping a fire thick with smoke. My dad pulled me out of the dust like an archeologist in Pompeii.

“I’m gonna get some hot dogs,” he said. “Don’t scratch the truck.”

“Of course,” I told him as one of the stupid slow bastards swept my legs from under me with a two by four. He tried to drive it through my chest but I caught it and broke it in half with my palm. I swung my half into his crotch and he doubled over crying. I stood and charged his buddy and tackled him to the floor. I picked him up and spun him above my head thirteen times before throwing him into the freeway support pillar. It collapsed bringing the freeway down with it, burying the bastard under 27 cars. I said something witty like, “that’s what you get for not letting us pass. Don’t drink and drive.”

Friday, January 18, 2008

I was with my father pushing our way out of Home Depot. Our cart was filled with 90 pound cement bags and eight foot two by fours were jutting out either end. This awkward 600 pound beast was hard enough to push in a straight line without having to guide it around these stupid slow bastards who were blocking our path.

We were in our work clothes and looked as the day laborers who wait for work in the Home Depot parking lots. My pants were baggy and faded, my shirt was thin and white and powdered grey with cement. My father attempted to maneuver the beast around these two guys in their mid twenties who were decked out in the latest clothing trends.

Under his breath one of the stupid slow bastards muttered condescendingly: “you could have said excuse me instead of just standing there.”

“Or you could not be in our way,” I said. He was taken aback, surprised that I spoke English.

“Oh, sorry,” he said quickly, unable to maintain eye contact. They moved out of the way and let us pass.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

Damn. You know it’s going to be a rough day when your head is pounding, you’re dry with a hangover and you’re wanted for dead. I guess that’s the price you pay when you sleep with someone’s woman. I stood naked from the bed and reached for my rum as they knocked down the door to my bedroom.

“Don’t!” I yelled, “or I’ll do it!”

“Do what?” One said pointing his knife at me.

“Not a step closer, fuckers. I’m warning you.” I swilled the rum and threw the bottle at their feet, but they took a step closer. Something stirred and moaned from beneath the bed sheets. "Be still, wench! Alright, bastards, you asked for it,” I said and picked up my watch, adjusting the time.

Poof!

“Coward! Arrr! Fleeing coward,” said the one with the knife. “Wench, fix me some eggs and fix baby Jesus some formula.”

“Aye,” said the wench as she left the room.

“’Tis time for rum, mateys.”

Poof!

“I’m back!” I said.

“Kill that scurvy seadog!” Knifey yelled.

“I wouldn’t do that! You wouldn’t kill your own father, would you?”

“Aye, whose father be ye?”

“I’m all your fathers! That’s right, you goddamned time pirates, I went back in time and made wenches of all yer—err, your—mothers!”

“Arr, Jesus Christ!”

“Baby Jesus be sleepin’!” Yelled the wench from another room.

I put on my knickers and got back into bed. “Now let's carry on with the plan and kidnap Shakespeare. I’m in the mood for sonnets.”

Mission Statement

I write because I like making people laugh. Some of my blog entries do so, most fail miserably.

No, wait. I write because I need validation. Those of my blog entries I consider failures are those lacking in comments. Validate me with comments whether they be constructive, or contain links to pictures of ghost towns. I do love them so.

Also, perhaps a tertiary objective completely unrelated to this blog, I love playing with wax and will one day fill a pool with molten wax and throw ice cubes into it. Wouldn't that be grand?